The Demise of Fluffy
by YanksLuver
Summary: While caring for Donna's cat, Josh accidentally kills it.


Title: The Demise of Fluffy

Title: The Demise of Fluffy  
Author: Steph (ILUVNYYANK@aol.com)   
Category: Humor   
Pairings: Josh/Donna friendship, Josh/Sam friendship, Josh/Fluffy   
interaction.   
POV: Josh   
Summary: While caring for Donna's cat, Josh accidentally kills it.   
Rating: PG   
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.   
Spoilers: Nope.   
Disclaimer: The West Wing and its characters do not belong to me. They   
belong to Aaron Sorkin, NBC, et al. I do this out of a love for the show and   
no infringement is intended.   
Note: No cats were harmed in the writing of this fanfic :)

  
  
* * * The Demise of Fluffy* * *   
  
  
Okay, this isn't happening. I am denying the existence of this   
occurrence.   
  
I killed Donna's cat.   
  
Oh damn, don't give me that look! If *you* give me *that* look, what   
the hell can I expect from Donna?  
  
It was an accident. A total accident.   
  
It could've happened to anyone. It could've happened to you, so you   
can wipe that self-righteous expression off your face.  
  
It all started at 10:00 pm on Friday.  
  
  
* * * Flashback: 36 hours ago * * *  
  
  
Ding dong.   
  
Oh, who the hell is that? Give me a break. I haven't gotten home from   
work before 10:00 pm in...wow...in I can't even remember how long.  
  
Until now, I was sitting in my boxers and ripped Yale t-shirt,   
enjoying an ice cold beer. I have been engaging in what is commonly referred   
to as 'channel surfing' for quite some time. 200 freakin' channels and there   
isn't a damn thing on. I mean, I am seriously considering watching my public   
access channel.   
  
Public access, people.  
  
Have you ever stopped and actually watched one of the programs on those   
stations? To say they are sad is a gross understatement.  
  
I have seen the following on my public access channel: a meeting of   
some sort of witches' coven, a call-in talk show about wrestling with   
pimple-faced teenagers as the hosts, a sock puppet performance of 'Romeo and   
Juliet' and, my personal favorite, a rendition of 'Who Let the Dogs Out'   
performed by two poodles.  
  
Is it sad that these shows are on and that there are people in this   
world who have worked hard to produce them? Yes, it is.   
  
Is it sadder that I have actually seen these shows and comprise half   
of their audience of about two? Yes...Yes, it is.   
  
For the record, their other viewer is probably some guy living in his   
parents' basement and those were his socks performing.   
  
My social life sucks. I don't know why I am so surprised. When you   
spend practically every waking moment working, it's hard to meet anyone.   
And, when I do have time to actually go make a social life, I am way too   
exhausted to even try.  
  
I am going to die a lonely man watching crappy television programs.  
  
So, that's the frame of mind I am in as my doorbell rings. I am feeling   
grumpy.  
  
I ease myself out of my recliner and make my way to the door. I fling   
the door open to reveal my assistant.  
  
My eyebrows raise in surprise, but I manage a grin. "A half an hour   
without me too much to bear, huh?"  
  
She rolls her eyes in response and shoves what seems to be a cat   
carrier into my arms. "I have to fly to Wisconsin. My Great-aunt Hilda   
died."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be. She was a bitch. I'm only going because I'm afraid she'll   
put a curse on me from beyond the grave if I don't."  
  
"A curse?"  
  
"Yes. She cursed my cousin, Jackie, at age five, because she said that   
Aunt Hilda was fat. Jackie now lacks self-esteem and dates deadbeats."  
  
I smirk, "Are you sure your aunt hasn't already cursed you?"  
  
I am rewarded with a good-natured slap on the arm. I smile and look   
down at the cat carrier. "So, what's this?"  
  
"I am going to be gone all weekend, Josh. I need you to take care of   
Fluffy."  
  
I am shaking my head. "Uh, no. I don't do cats."  
  
Okay, that sounded weird and creepy.  
  
"You don't do any animals, Josh."  
  
That sounded even weirder and creepier.  
  
She continues with a grin, "You can't care for living things very well,   
Josh. As a child, three turtles, two hamsters, an iguana and a pet rock met   
their demise while in your care."  
  
I smile, "The passing of the pet rock was especially tragic."  
  
"You seem to have an inability and unwillingness to care for living   
things."  
  
"That's right," I reply. "I care for only one living thing: myself."  
  
"Yes, I've noticed. And you're not even good at that," she pauses,   
"Look, if I had time to find someone else, believe me, I would. But I don't,   
so you're it."  
  
"What about your roommate?"  
  
"Moved out last week. Took the other cat, Flopsy, with her."  
  
I smile. "Good, I hated Flopsy. She always gave me very sinister   
looks."  
  
Donna scoffs, "Not that I believe that cats can give looks of any   
kind, Josh, but that was Fluffy."  
  
My face falls. "It's this one?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
I try to hand her the carrier. "Sorry, no can do."  
  
She pushes the carrier back into my chest, "You have to do this for   
me, Josh. How many times have I bailed you out?"  
  
"Well, you are my assistant. Any bailing out has fallen under your   
assistant duties."  
  
"Picking my drunken boss, who has panties around his neck, up off the   
floor, is not a part of my job description."  
  
"I hate this cat," I declare. Okay, so it was probably more of a   
whine, but it was definitely warranted. "He's creepy."  
  
"He's a cat."  
  
"A cat with less than pure motives."  
  
"Yeah, Josh, I'm sure he's planning to rob you blind in the middle of   
the night."  
  
"I'm just saying I don't trust him."  
  
She sighs. I think her patience has worn thin. "All you have to do   
is feed him, give him fresh water and clean his litter box everyday."  
  
She hands me a large bag containing all that I need.   
  
"What about your neighbors? That lady across the hall from you seems   
very capable."  
  
"She's ninety-five, blind, deaf and confined to bed, Josh."  
  
"Picky, picky." I pause and then ask, "And your other neighbors?"  
  
She shakes her head, "It's 10:00 pm on a Friday. Unlike you and I,   
they actually have lives."  
  
I groan, as Donna smiles and gives me what can only be termed a   
condescending pat on the head. "All you have to do is feed him, give him   
water and clean his litterbox everyday," she repeats and then adds jokingly,   
"Oh, and try not to kill him."  
  
* * * Present Day * * *   
  
Oops.   
  
Let me just say in my defense that the first three things I did very   
well.   
  
The cat was given food and water everyday whenever he wanted them.   
  
His litterbox was so much cleaner than my bathroom that I considered   
using it instead.   
  
True, the fourth thing proved to be a bit of a challenge. Okay, not so   
much a challenge as a total, utter failure.   
  
Who knew it would be so hard to keep a cat alive for a whole weekend?  
  
  
* * * Flashback: 35 hours and 51 minutes ago* * *  
  
  
I enter my apartment and place the cat carrier down on the floor. I   
proceed to empty the bag Donna gave me. It includes five cans of soft cat   
food (three of tuna and two of chicken medley), a bag of dry food, three   
bowls (one for soft food, one for dry food, and one for water), a small   
litter box, a bag of litter, two squeezie toys (a mouse and a mangled bird),   
and two old socks filled with catnip.  
  
I smile at the catnip.   
  
Marijuana for cats.  
  
Give a cat something with catnip in it and they'll keep themselves   
occupied for hours. They go crazy for the stuff. Cats get high off catnip.   
I once witnessed Flopsy run around in circles for thirty minutes straight and   
then collapse in exhaustion after being exposed to it.   
  
My question is why isn't catnip illegal? Why don't cats have to   
conform to the same standards as humans do?  
  
Can you just picture catnip being illegal: There would be all of these   
good, domesticated cats sneaking out at night and prowling the streets   
looking for their dealer. They'd walk down an alley, find their dealer and   
exchange their rhinestone collars for catnip.  
  
I finish pondering the catnip and then walk over to the cat carrier.   
I crouch down and look at the cat through the plastic bars.   
  
He hisses at me.  
  
I hiss back.  
  
I loathe this cat. And it's not even entirely due to the sinister   
looks he always gives me. He has scratched me, bitten me, peed on my leg,   
and I swear one of his hisses sounded like 'Josh will die' once.  
  
I sigh, as I undo the latch. He immediately runs out and through my   
legs. He proceeds to run amok.   
  
Fluffy jumps from the couch to the recliner, then to the coffee table.   
My eyes widen in horror, as he knocks my glass of ice cold beer over.   
  
I am not ashamed to admit that a tear comes to my eye as the beer lands   
on my rug. I cry not for the rug, but for the beer. I can't stand to see   
alcohol wasted.  
  
Fluffy then runs into the kitchen and jumps up on the counter. I can   
hear a plate crash to the floor. I run into the kitchen to capture the   
mongrel, but he eludes me. He scampers down the hall and into the bathroom.   
I follow after him and then slam the door closed behind him.   
  
Ha! Now he's my prisoner.   
  
I talk to him through the door, "I'll let you out when you think you   
can behave."  
  
Yeah, I'm sure he's considering his actions right now.   
  
I walk to the kitchen and fill one bowl with water and one with dry   
food. I return to the door and get down on my knees. After three attempts   
at pushing the bowls under the door, I give up. I slowly turn the doorknob   
and open up the door only enough to fit the bowls through.   
  
I notice something, however, as I listen carefully and look around.   
He's nowhere in sight and it's very quiet.  
  
Too quiet.   
  
I'm just about to enter the bathroom, when I see an airborne cat   
hurling himself at my head. Apparently, he had perched himself on my   
counter, at a spot where I couldn't see him, and had waited until the perfect   
moment. Then he pounced.  
  
The cat lands on my head, his claws digging into my scalp. I shriek   
(like a girl, I admit) and immediately jump to my feet. I then proceed to   
run around in circles, while vigorously shaking my head back and forth.   
  
Unfortunately, this cat's got a grip like Hercules. Finally, after   
what seems like hours of running, shrieking, hair (mine) flying every which   
way, and a brief prayer to God that I will be an honest man if he ends this,   
the cat apparently tires of torturing me and simply jumps off my head.   
  
I collapse to the ground and begin to whimper.   
  
(Note to God: I'm a politician, I lie a lot.)  
  
After recovering from my ordeal and coming to terms with the fact that   
I now have considerably less hair than I did before, my eyes land on the cat.   
  
I've decided to call him Satan's Minion. I hope nobody has a problem   
with that.   
  
I follow Satan's Minion down the hall and watch as he stops at my   
bedroom door. He glances back at me, offers me a devilish (yeah, that's   
right) look and then enters my bedroom. I walk to my doorway and am just   
about to enter the room, when the door slams in my face.   
  
My eye widen in shock.   
  
How the hell did he do that?  
  
Ah yes, he's one of Satan's minions. He has the help of the Dark One.   
He has the strength of ten men.  
  
Okay, so maybe that's a bit far-fetched, but I'm at a loss. How does   
a eight pound fleebag slam a solid oak door closed that was wide open?  
  
I'm back to the Satan's minion explanation.   
  
I drop my head and walk to the living room. The truth is, and I am   
ashamed to admit this, but I am now terrified of this cat. I fear that he   
will somehow open my bedroom door and scratch my eyes out as I sleep.   
  
Therefore, I have done something drastic: I've locked myself in my hall   
closet and assumed the fetal position.  
  
* * * *  
  
It's morning by the time I venture out of my hall closet. That wasn't   
the best night's sleep I've ever had. It's a little crowded in here. I'm   
not the neatest person who's ever walked the planet.   
  
I slept amidst hangers, clothes, shoes, and, curiously, a banana and   
bologna sandwich. I was hungry, so I examined the banana and bologna   
sandwich to determine if they were still edible. (Note: Still edible to me   
means less than two weeks old and no more than a quarter of it, if   
applicable, covered with mold.) Half of the sandwich was covered in mold, so   
I opted for the banana. A strange smell also disrupted my beauty rest. It   
was combination of stinky shoes, bananas and a moldy bologna sandwich.  
  
Anyway, I finally emerge from the closet this morning. I tiptoe down   
the hall towards my bedroom and am astonished to find the door wide open.  
  
What the hell?!  
  
Okay, this cat is seriously freaking me out. I mean, now he can turn   
doorknobs?  
  
I run a hand through my hair and emit a loud moan.   
  
I walk to my bathroom to shower and then change.  
  
A half an hour later, I'm in a much better mood. I've decided that I   
no longer care about the cat. I don't care where he is. I don't care if he   
eats or drinks. I don't care. I've left him food and water, I've done my   
job. Now, he can fend for himself. I cannot wait until Donna comes home   
tomorrow night.   
  
I proceed to go about my day. I go into the kitchen and fix myself a   
proper breakfast. After eating, I call Sam up.  
  
"Hey, buddy, you want to come over to my place and watch my Mets kick   
your Giants asses this afternoon?"  
  
Sam smiles, "Sure, I'll be over at 1."  
  
I hang up the phone and continue to go about my day, without a care in   
the world. Carefree. Free as a bird.   
  
I fear not the cat, I care not about the cat.  
  
I pass the time by 'tidying' my place. By tidying I mean moving my   
dirty clothes from the couch to the floor and putting the cap back on my   
toothpaste.   
  
The phone rings just as I'm about to go relax on the couch and watch   
some television. I pick up on the second ring.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Josh."  
  
I narrow my eyes and say coldly, "Donnatella."  
  
She senses something is wrong, "What did you do?"  
  
"What did *I* do? Your cat has nearly ruined my life."   
  
Okay, so that was a little melodramatic and...well...entirely untrue.   
But I have to lay it on thick if I want any pity.  
  
"Josh, stop being so dramatic. I am sure the cat has been no trouble   
at all."  
  
"No trouble at all? He knocked over my beer, Donna."  
  
"Oh, heavens, how tragic."  
  
"Fine, mock me. But there are men in this world who have no beer.   
Think about them."  
  
"Yes, Josh, and for just 75 cents a day you can sponsor a beerless man   
and give him the alcohol he so desperately needs."  
  
"I'm hanging up now."  
  
"Okay, okay. Tell me what else he did."  
  
"He broke one of my plates. He attacked me. I'm talking, a scene from   
"The Birds", only with a cat. He then slammed my door shut! A cat slammed   
my door shut! What the hell do you feed that thing? Or, as I suspect, is he   
one of Satan's minions?"  
  
I can hear Donna burst into laughter. She doesn't even attempt to   
disguise it. That's a tad insulting.  
  
"Donna!" I yell.  
  
She finally recovers long enough to say, "I'm sorry, Josh, but you act   
like you're being terrorized by a cat. This isn't some really bad horror   
movie."  
  
"Fine, don't believe me. Just pick Beelzebub up promptly at 8:00 pm   
tomorrow night."  
  
"Ah, he's been promoted from one of Satan's minions to the devil   
himself. Impressive."  
  
"Good-bye," I grumble into the phone and slam it down.   
  
I continue to mutter beneath my breath as I go over to the couch and   
flop down on it.  
  
I spend the rest of the time until Sam arrives watching the public   
access channel. What can I say? Some habits are hard to break.   
  
At precisely 1:00 pm my doorbell rings. I walk to the door and shake   
my head at my best friend. "Annoyingly prompt as always, Sam."  
  
Sam smiles, as he walks past me and surveys my apartment,   
"Disgustingly sloppy as always, Josh."  
  
"Welcome to my humble abode," I say with a flourish of my hand, as I   
close the door.   
  
Sam makes himself comfortable on the couch, as I head to kitchen.   
"Beer?"  
  
"Yeah, thanks."  
  
I go over to the refrigerator and remove two beers from it. I enter   
back into the living room and hand Sam his beer.   
  
He points to the cat carrier, as I settle into my recliner. "What's   
that about?"  
  
I roll my eyes. "I'm taking care of Donna's cat this weekend. She   
had to go to her Great-aunt's funeral in Wisconsin."  
  
"And she asked *you* to take care of him?"  
  
I feign a smile, "Yes, me. I am perfectly capable of taking care of a   
cat for a couple of days, Sam."  
  
"You killed a pet rock, Josh. I didn't even think that was possible."  
  
"It was smashed to pieces. I don't see how that could be my fault."  
  
"You hit it with a hammer!"  
  
I smile and then shrug, as I lean back and pull the handle on the side   
of the recliner so that the leg rest pops up. "Well, I have nothing to do   
with the cat now. He's on his own. I don't care about him. I haven't even   
seen him all day."  
  
Sam nods and then says, "Got any chips?"  
  
I bob my head and use my feet to slam the leg rest back in place.   
  
Strange. That seemed a bit harder to do than usual.  
  
And what was that little shriek I heard?  
  
I look over at Sam, whose face has gone white.  
  
Oh. My. God.  
  
This is not happening.  
  
I shake my head at him, "It wasn't-..."  
  
He interrupts me by nodding furiously and pointing to a little bit of   
white fur sticking out from under the recliner. "It was."  
  
I jump up from the recliner and begin to panic. This can't be   
happening. No God could be this cruel! Please, don't let this be happening.  
  
I look over at Sam, "Do you think he's dead?"  
  
He shrugs, "I don't know."  
  
"Go check."  
  
"Me?! Why do I have to do it?"  
  
"Because I may have just killed my assistant's cat! I'm in a fragile   
place right now!"   
  
"I'm not doing it," Sam says with a firm shake of his head.  
  
I study Sam for a moment, realizing that I need to appeal to his   
weakness: the fact that he is one of the nicest, most sensitive men you   
could ever meet.   
  
"Sam, if he's not dead then we have to bring him to the vet. He needs   
help. If he is dead, than he deserves a proper burial."  
  
Sam looks at me with a certain amount of contempt and then mutters   
softly, "Damn". He pauses and then adds, "That was cheap, Josh. That was   
cheap even for you."  
  
I shrug. A man's got to do what a man's got to do.  
  
Sam walks over to the recliner and carefully lifts the leg rest up.   
He looks quickly and then slams it closed again. He looks at me solemnly,   
"He's dead."  
  
I run a hand through my hair and shake my head.   
  
I am so incredibly screwed right now.  
  
  
* * * Present Day * * *   
  
  
And that's where you guys came in.   
  
A half an hour after the death, the animal hospital came to remove the   
body of the cat and I gave them my permission to bury it in their pet   
cemetery.   
  
I spent the rest of that day denying that anything had happened. Sam   
stayed with me, repeatedly reminding me of the incident.   
  
It is now 10:00 am on Sunday and Donna is expected here in 10 hours. I   
have now accepted the fact that I killed Donna's cat and decided that I need   
a plan.  
  
First, Sam helps me carry my recliner outside and place it on the curb.   
That object, which once held so many happy memories, only reminds me of how   
incredibly screwed I am right now.  
  
Don't get me wrong, I am not entirely selfish. I feel really bad about   
Fluffy dying.   
  
But I must carry on and try to save my own ass.  
  
I look at Sam, "We have to go to the pet store."  
  
"Josh, no."  
  
"Sam, I am not telling Donna that I killed her cat in a freak recliner   
accident."  
  
"Why? That's what happened. I witnessed it."  
  
"I know, but she'll never believe that. I just finished telling her   
how much I hate the thing."  
  
"So, maybe you subconsciously-..."  
  
"Sam!"  
  
"I'm just saying-..."  
  
"Don't just say. That's the kind of help that's going to do me in."  
  
"Do me in? When did this turn into a Western movie?"  
  
I ignore him and begin to walk down the street. "I'm going to the pet   
store. Come, don't come, it's entirely up to you."  
  
I can hear him sigh in defeat and then break into a jog to catch up   
with me. He joins me at my side. "Fine, I'll go with you. But I'd just   
like to say that I am totally opposed to this. It goes against all of my   
morals and values. It violates the common decency that we, as a society,   
should-..."  
  
I roll my eyes, cutting him off, "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're not for   
it."  
  
Sam snaps his mouth shut and remains silent the rest of the way to the   
store.   
  
We enter the store and head towards the cat section. To my dismay,   
there are only two cats left. One is a humongous orange and white striped   
cat. It could never pass as Fluffy. He had long white hair and weighed   
about half as much.  
  
The other was a black cat who looked to be about the same size as   
Fluffy.  
  
Sam looks at me, "Well, let's go. None of these cats could pass for   
Fluffy."  
  
I shake my head, "Not so fast. That black one could work."  
  
Sam's eyes widen. "I know you're not the most observant guy in the   
world, Josh, but Fluffy was white."  
  
"I know."  
  
"So?"  
  
"Have you ever seen the movie 'Meet the Parents', Sam?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, you should, it's really very good. Anyway, in that movie Ben   
Stiller's character loses his fiancees' family cat. He finds a cat that is   
identical except for a slightly different tail. So, he sprays the cat's tail   
to resemble that of the lost one."  
  
Sam's eyes nearly fall out of his head. "You're not suggesting that   
we...Josh, this cat is entirely black. We couldn't possibly spray paint a   
cat all white."  
  
Josh nods, "No, of course not."  
  
"Oh, thank God."  
  
"I'm going to pour flour all over it."  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Flour. You know, used in the making of bread and-..."  
  
"I know what flour is!"  
  
"So then why did you ask?"  
  
"I was expressing shock at the fact that you plan to flour a cat. It   
won't work, Josh."  
  
"Well, we're going to find out. This cat's got long hair, Sam. It   
should hold the flour well."  
  
At this point, Sam grabs me by the shoulders and looks me straight in   
the eye. "Josh, you've lost it. I can't allow you to do this."  
  
I drop my head. He's right. I've gone insane. How could I have   
thought that would work?"  
  
"You're right," I agree.   
  
He sighs in relief, "Thank God. Now let's go home and prepare a speech   
for you to give Donna as an explanation."  
  
"No, we're going to another pet store."  
  
"Josh!" I hear him exclaim, as I walk past him and head out the door.  
  
The next store is only a few blocks away and I make it there in record   
time. Sam catches up to me, huffing and puffing.   
  
"You can't do this."  
  
"I can and I will."  
  
"Why can't you just tell Donna the truth?"  
  
"Because she will hate me forever, Sam! I'll lose my assistant and   
friend."  
  
"She'll understand."  
  
I shake my head and step towards the door, but Sam moves to block my   
path.  
  
"I kindly ask that you step aside, Sam."  
  
"I won't let you do this."  
  
I sigh and then smile as an idea hits me. I turn to my right and point   
down the block, "Hey, is Tootie from 'The Facts of Life'?"  
  
"Where?" Sam says excitedly, as he steps forward and whips his head in   
that direction.  
  
I take this opportunity to maneuver past him and enter the store. I   
hear him scream, "Damn!", before he follows me inside.  
  
I hurry to the cat section at the back of the store and survey my   
options.   
  
Aha! They have one that looks like Fluffy! He's about the same size   
and color.   
  
I gesture to one of the employees, as Sam shoots me disapproving looks.   
"I'll take that one."  
  
"Yes, sir," she says.  
  
She removes the cat from his cage and proceeds to prepare it to go. I   
pay the cashier and then receive instructions on proper care and   
recommendations for food, litter and health care.  
  
I nod, as we leave the store with the cat.   
  
Sam is silent for quite some time, until he finally says, "You're going   
to hell for this, you know."  
  
"Sam, if this is the worst thing I do in the course of my life, then   
I'll consider myself a pretty decent human being."  
  
"Satan's playground. That's where you're going."  
  
* * * *  
  
It's been 26 hours since Fluffy met his demise.   
  
Fluffy Part Deux, as I've taken to calling her, is doing just fine.   
We've known each other for a few hours now and we're getting along well. And   
she's a much better roommate.   
  
We've actually been bonding. We watched a production of 'CATS' this   
afternoon on PBS. We both agreed that the cats were not realistic   
interpretations.  
  
At 5:00 pm, the phone rings. I go to answer it.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hi, Josh."  
  
I swallow hard. "Hi, Donna. Um, how's it going?"  
  
"Everything's fine. I'm on my way home. I should be there around 8:00   
pm, just as you requested."  
  
"Oh, no rush, take your time."  
  
"What? Yesterday, you couldn't wait to get rid of him. Now you're   
completely content? What happened?"  
  
"Uh...we...Uh...We reached an understanding. He promised to stop   
leaving the toilet seat up if I promised to stop licking myself."  
  
"Very funny. Now try the truth."  
  
"Nothing happened, Donna. We've been staying out of each other's way,   
that's all."  
  
Wow, I've really become good at this lying thing. I almost believe me.  
  
There's still a hint of suspicion in her voice, as she replies, "Okay,   
fine. I'll see you in a little while."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Oh and Josh?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Yeah," I say softly and then hang up.  
  
Damn, why did she have to sound so appreciative. I'd very nearly   
suppressed all guilty feelings until then.   
  
Oh well, that's okay. It's passed.  
  
* * * *  
  
3 hours later, my doorbell rings. I take a deep breath and go to   
answer it. Donna smiles back at me.  
  
"Hi, Josh."  
  
"Hi...Uh, come in."  
  
She walks past me and immediately goes over to the couch to pick up   
Fluffy.   
  
"How's my boy?" she says.  
  
I stand across from her uncomfortably, as she cradles the cat in her   
arms.   
  
My heart skips a beat, however, when she looks down at him and says,   
"Now what's this?"  
  
Oh no. Oh God. Please, don't let her figure it out.  
  
I look over at her and am relieved to find that she is admiring the   
ribbon I tied around his neck. (What? Male cats can't look a little fancy,   
too?)  
  
She looks up at me, "You put this on him?"  
  
"Well, he has a date with a wild Persian down the hall tonight. He   
wanted to look his best."  
  
Donna smiles and says softly, "That was sweet."  
  
There it is again. That pang.   
  
What is it called again?   
  
Yes, that's right.   
  
Guilt.  
  
Donna begins to move around the room, gathering the cat's belongings.   
I help her and then walk her to the door.   
  
She smiles again, "Thanks so much for doing this, Josh. I know you   
didn't want to. I really appreciate it."  
  
"It was my pleasure. If you ever need someone to take care of Fluffy   
again feel free to...call someone else," I finish with a grin.  
  
Donna laughs and nods. She then bids me good-bye and disappears down   
the hall.   
  
I let out a sigh of relief, as a lean against my door.  
  
I did it. I fooled her. She'll never know. Everybody wins.   
  
Donna is spared pain and I, in turn, am spared pain.  
  
I am da man.  
  
  
* * * Three weeks later * * *   
  
  
There is a banging at my door. A loud, violent banging.   
  
It's 3:00 am and I have to force my eyes open. I try to rub the sleep   
out of them to no avail.  
  
I slowly get out of bed and head to my door. I stop dead in my tracks,   
two feet away from the door.  
  
"Open the door, Josh! I know you're in there," Donna screams.  
  
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.   
  
I freeze and try to remain perfectly still.  
  
"Open up! I know what you did, Joshua!"  
  
How could she possibly know?  
  
Sam!   
  
That dirty rat. Is a pinky swear no longer sacred?  
  
"Did you think I wouldn't notice that my male cat is now female?!"  
  
My mouth drops open.  
  
What?!  
  
You've got to be kidding me.   
  
"It was kind of a dead giveaway when she went into labor two hours ago!"  
  
Damn!   
  
This keeps getting worse and worse. I knew it was too good to be true.  
  
"Open the damn door, Josh!"  
  
Okay, so what I decided to do next probably wasn't the best of choices,   
but I panicked. "No habla ingles!"  
  
I can hear her snicker and her voice drops to an eerily calm tone,   
"Fine, don't open the door. I'll just leave this gift outside your door.   
You know, as a thank you."  
  
I raise my eyebrows at that. Hm, maybe she's come around. Maybe she's   
glad that she now has a whole littler of kittens to keep her company.  
  
I wonder what she got me.   
  
A Piazza jersey maybe? That DVD set of 'Clarissa Explains It All?'   
(Don't laugh. Clarissa was very wise. I learned a lot from her.) Oh! Maybe   
it's that combination radio/tv/cd player I saw a couple of months ago.  
  
The suspense is killing me!  
  
I throw the door open and drop my gaze to the floor.   
  
Oh. My. God.  
  
She wouldn't. She didn't.   
  
Sitting at my feet in a basket, are six white kittens.   
  
She would. She did.  
  
I am so totally screwed.  
  
  
************************THE END************************  
Hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you thought. ~Steph   
  
  
  
  



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